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“Flying is learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss.” — Douglas Adams
Lee
Lee Bragg waited in the parking lot of the Brown Field Municipal Airport outside of San Diego with the windows of his dusty Chevrolet Impala rental rolled down to catch whatever breeze there was. That equaled not much and very little. Sweat stuck the black-and-gold Hawaiian shirt to his body. He leaned forward and fanned the shirt, wrinkling his nose at the stale smell of his own body. Southern California in the middle of a heat wave. Unseasonably high temperatures. Go figure.
Using a pair of field glasses, he focused on a white Cessna with blue trim as it settled onto the runway. He read off the tail number and compared it to one scribbled on a Holiday Inn notepad in the seat next to him. He picked up a burner phone from the center console and dialed a number from memory.
The phone was answered after two rings. “Go.”
“They’re here,” Bragg said.
“Understood. They’ll probably stay overnight, pick up the package in the morning. You know what to do.”
“You got it.”
“Lee?”
“Huh?”
“Don’t fuck it up this time. I want that package to fail to reach its destination. Understood?”
“Hey, it’s not my—”
“Understood?”
Bragg’s nostrils flared, and he said yes through gritted teeth, clicked off the phone, and tossed it in the passenger seat hard enough that it bounced into the floorboard.
All this over a damn sorority girl fresh out of law school. What a sick joke. The blond Barbie doll had faked him in Arizona after he’d spotted her car in the fourth roadside motel he tried. When Lee glanced at the parking lot after he checked in, he’d nearly had a heart attack; the woman’s taillights were zooming onto the desert highway and disappearing fast. He’d had to race like a scalded cat, not catching sight of her until just outside San Diego.
After she’d dumped her car at the airport, Bragg had to tail her on foot. She’d gotten on a bus and hopped public transportation all the way from San Diego International to the San Ysidro border crossing, staying in crowds all the way.
“Don’t fuck up,” Bartlett says. What? I’m supposed to kill her in broad daylight? “No, follow her to Mexico,” Bartlett says. So I follow her, and she tries to run back into the US! She must have made him, was all he could figure.
Bragg cranked on the Impala and got the AC blowing, then he hit the window buttons to seal out the arid heat. At least now that the state cops from Texas had landed, he could wait in relative comfort for them to leave the terminal. After that, he could go to work.
~~~
Sam
MARLON BROUGHT THE Cessna to a stop next to a metal hangar and flipped switches. The propellers fluttered to a stop, and the silence made my ears ring.
“Good job,” I said.
“Thank you, sir.”
“We didn’t crash once.”
I followed Marlon from the cramped interior of the Cessna onto the tarmac and refrained from kissing the ground. The asphalt was baking in the afternoon sun, and a mild breeze barely moved the windsock hanging by the runway.
“Hel-lo,” I said. “I thought San Diego was supposed to be cool year-round. Hell, this is only May.”
“Heat wave,” said a lanky kid wearing mechanic’s overalls. Wiping his hands on a red shop rag, he came from the dark interior of the San Diego Jet Center hangar. He had rusty hair and an overbite. “Plus, you’re inland a bit here. Ain’t it a bitch?”
“Might as well have stayed in Texas.”
The mechanic directed Marlon to the office, where he went to make arrangements for refueling and storage of the Cessna while I found the rental-car desk. The chipper Latino kid gave me a map, directions to a budget motel near the county courthouse, and a humongous key to a Ford Fusion.
Thirty-two minutes after landing, we dumped our overnight bags in the back of the Fusion, and I took the driver’s seat while Marlon rode shotgun. His expression of grim determination and serious purpose hadn’t changed in the six hours I’d known him.
“Here. Take a look at who we’re transporting.” I handed Marlon the file on Jade Stone.
“Oh, wow,” he said, flipping it open. “She’s pretty.”
“She’s also a cop killer, so don’t let her looks fool you.”
“Why is it always the pretty ones who go bad?”
I couldn’t tell from his look whether he was trying to be funny, but I suspected not. I turned onto Otay Mesa Road and accelerated toward San Diego. “Are you always so serious, Marlon?”
“Serious?” He looked perplexed. “What do you mean, sir?”
“I mean, I think I’ve seen you smile one time in the last six hours.”
Marlon’s brows contracted. “I can be funny.”
At a T-junction, I made a jog left then turned right onto 905. “When we see the judge tomorrow to get our paperwork signed, you can do all the talking. They like earnest and sincere a lot more than a wiseass.”
“At Thanksgiving, when my family gets together, we tell jokes and stuff,” Marlon said.
“Really?”
“Yes, sir. Wait a sec... let me think.” He held up a hand. “Okay, okay. There’s this guy... these two guys... They go in a restaurant, okay?”
“Two guys in a restaurant. Got it.”
“And they... I mean, the waiter, he’s carrying the tray from the kitchen, and he slips and falls, right? Everything crashes to the floor.” Marlon illustrated with his hands, indicating that a mess went everywhere. “So everything crashes, and the waiter, he’s on his ass. And these two guys, they’re like tech guys, right? They’re in computers and whatnot. One guy looks at the other and says, ‘Oh, look, the server’s crashed!’”
Brown desert flowed past the window, and the car rocked in the pressure wave from a semi flying by in the left lane. I looked at Marlon and back at the road. “The server crashed?”
“Yeah. The server. Like computer server—”
“I get it, yeah. Hey, Marlon?”
“Sir?”
“You’re invited to my folks’ place this Thanksgiving. You’ll be the hit of the party.”
“Thank you, sir. That would be an honor.”
“Don’t say honor until you’ve tried Mama Cable’s sweet potato surprise.” I changed the subject. “Tomorrow, we’re due in court at nine a.m. to get our docs signed. Hopefully, that won’t take long, but this is California, so who knows? After that, we pick up Stone at the county jail and head back to Brown Field. How long you think it’ll take to get the plane ready to fly?”
“Under an hour or so to file the flight plan, check the weather, and whatnot.”
“So, with any luck, we’ll be back in Texas by dinnertime tomorrow, right?”
“Sounds like a plan, sir.”
“Good. I want this over and done with fast.”
~~~
Jade
IN THE JAIL, THE DEPUTIES distributed sack lunches around noon—one slice of unidentified meat product and a Xerox copy of a cheese slice pressed between almost-stale white bread soaked with oily mayo. A plastic package of carrot sticks and a juice box complemented the sandwich. Jade ate it all.
Before her daddy had turned his single garage into a chain of quick lube and oil change stations, Jade had earned an appreciation for eating what was put in front of her. Poke sallet was nothing but a weed to most folks, but many a time, that was all the greens her mama had to cook with. Breakfast was grits when they could get it, cornbread on good days. Lunch was more of the same, maybe with some fatback bacon or leftover fried chicken. When chicken was scarce, dinner consisted of whatever her brother, Diamond, could shoot—squirrel, rabbit, or possum. Maybe some raccoon.
Food got better as time went on, and Daddy got rich and went into politics, but Jade never forgot the feeling of going hungry. It had a way of making every meal a banquet.
“Well, it ain’t much,” Clarice declared, “but it sho’ is nasty.”
“I’ve eaten worse,” Jade said.
“Well, I have, too, girlfren. But when I do, I gets paid fo’ it. I licked ass had better flavor’n that sammich.”
Deputy Hamilton appeared at the cell door. “Open twelve,” she said into her mic. A buzz and click released the lock, and their door clanked open.
“C’mon, Angel,” Hamilton said to Jade, not unkindly, “it’s time for you to say goodbye to Clarice. Your ride to Texas is here.”
“Go on now, girl.” Clarice hopped down from her top bunk and put a hand on Jade’s shoulder. “You be okay. Girl like you, nothin’ bad gonna happen. God won’t let it.”
Jade shared a hug with Clarice, who patted her back. “I be prayin fo’ you, Angel.”
“Thank you,” Jade whispered. She shuffled through the entrance and waited while Hamilton radioed for the cell door to be closed. Hamilton took her by the arm, and Jade allowed herself to be guided away. She glanced back at Clarice, who gave her a sunny smile and a wave.
Hamilton said, “Don’t fret, honey. You should see the pair’a hunks they sent to take you back. I wouldn’t kick either one outta my bed, no ma’am. Mm-mm.”
The deputy buzzed through the jail door into a narrow hall with another remote-controlled door. That one hummed and clicked open, and Hamilton led Jade to an office door labeled Property Clerk, which she opened with her ID badge.
Two men made the small room feel even smaller. Like black and white chess pieces, they flanked the Dutch door leading to the property room on the opposite wall from where she entered.
The shorter one, a black man in a khaki Texas Department of Public Safety uniform, gleamed like a new car on a showroom floor. From his polished shoes, razor creases, tooled-leather belt, and handsome, poster-boy face, the uniformed trooper could’ve passed inspection on any parade ground. His massive upper arms strained the short-sleeve cuffs of his uniform blouse.
The other man was easily six inches taller than his companion, a blue-eyed and blond-haired contrast in male diversity. A well-worn cream Stetson complemented his strong, direct face and broad shoulders. His arrow waist and long tan jeans ended at scuffed cowboy boots. If you combined the DNA of Bradley Cooper, Toby Keith, and George Strait in a lab, she thought, this is what you would get.
His white cotton button-down shirt was poorly pressed—one sleeve had an extra crease—and he wore a high-rise holster with a cocked-and-locked .45 on one hip. A Texas Ranger star-within-a-circle badge was pinned to his chest.
Hamilton had not exaggerated. A pair of hunks, indeed.
“Ms. Stone?” The Ranger took a step forward and extended his hand. “I’m Sam Cable of the Texas Rangers. This is Marlon Boggs. We’re here to take you back to Texas to stand trial for the murder of Thomas Grace.”
Jade shook his hand without thinking about it, her mind still on autopilot. She felt the handcuff a heartbeat later and looked down to find the Ranger had snapped it over her wrist with his left hand while he held her right.
“Please extend your other hand, Ms. Stone.” When he had her cuffed, he said, “You’re not gonna run, are you? I’d hate to use the leg irons.”
“No, sir.” Jade felt about six years old, standing in front of her father’s desk.
“If you behave, I’ll keep you cuffed in front, where it’s more comfortable. You act up, and I’ll not only put the leg irons on, I’ll cuff you in back, which sucks when you want to scratch your nose. Comprende?”
“Yes.”
“Good. If you behave yourself the entire way, I promise I won’t let Marlon tell you a joke.”